ajority of men have had at least one negative which has remained a
negative, so far as they were concerned, all the woman's life.

"I am aware," said M. de Chauxville, "that the rose has thorns. One
reason why the violet is hors de concours."

Etta smiled--almost relenting. She was never quite safe against her own
vanity. Happy the woman who is, and rare.

"I suspect that the violet is innocent of any desire to enter into
competition," said Etta.

"Knowing," suggested De Chauxville, "that although the race is not
always to the swift, it is usually so. Please do not stand. It suggests
that you are waiting for me to go or for some one else to come."

"Neither."

"Then prove it by taking this chair. Thus. Near the fire, for it is
quite an English spring. A footstool. Is it permitted to admire your
slippers--what there is of them? Now you look comfortable."

He attended to her wants, divined them, and perhaps created them with a
perfect grace and much too intimate a knowledge. As a carpet knight he
was faultless. And Etta thought of Paul, who could do none of these
things--or would do none of them--Paul, who never made her feel like a
doll.

"Will you not sit down?" she said, indicating a chair, which he did not
take. He selected one nearer to her.

"I can think of nothing more desirable."

"Than what?" she asked. Her vanity was like a hungry fish. It rose to
everything.

"A chair in this room."

"A modest desire," she said. "Is that really all you want in this
world?"

"No," he answered, looking at her.

She gave a little laugh and moved rather hurriedly.

"I was going to suggest that you could have both at certain fixed
periods--whenever--I am out."

"I am glad you did not suggest it."

"Why?" she asked sharply.

"Because I should have had to go into explanations. I did not say all."

Mrs. Bamborough was looking into the fire, only half listening to him.
There was something in the nature of a duel between these two. Each
thought more of the next stroke than of the present party.

"Do you ever say all, M. de Chauxville?" she asked.

The baron laughed. Perhaps he was vain of the reputation that was his,
for this man was held to be a finished diplomatist. A finished
diplomatist, be it known, is one who is a dangerous foe and an
unreliable friend.

"Perhaps--now that I reflect upon it," continued the clever woman,
disliking the clever man's silence, "the person who said all would be
intolerable."